


take a shot (my heart is full of arrows)

by anteros (shua_hui)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Football | Soccer, M/M, Oblivious Harry, Pining Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 09:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15288417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shua_hui/pseuds/anteros
Summary: Harry takes a shot on the football pitch, Draco takes a shot under the dim Slytherin lights at the after party. Celebrations and chaos ensue.





	take a shot (my heart is full of arrows)

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is a harry potter football au, still taking place at hogwarts except it's a regular private school without magic lol
> 
> third person limited bc i think third person omniscient turned out so messy in pick up the petals lmao
> 
> the title is ??????? take a shot was meant to make it footie related but then i thought it sounded boring so the arrow part links in to taking a shot + being in love but then makes it sound like an archery au snksfkjs
> 
> yes, this was inspired by the world cup

“Get up, Malfoy.”

“Ow! Ow, ow, _owww_!” Malfoy whines, face wrecked with dramatic agony. He’s clutching his shoulder and rolling fiercely on the ground, smearing dirt on the dark green of his house jersey. “Free kick, free kick,” he whimpers at Madam Hooch, still thrashing about.

“No one even touched you, Malfoy!” Harry growls, tugging roughly at his arm. Dean and Seamus crowd round, sporting unimpressed faces. The blistering rays of the summer sun are already frying Harry’s head, and Malfoy’s howling has his temper rising.

Madam Hooch sighs, “Mr Malfoy, the drama club are having their practice in the theatre. If you want to switch your extracurricular, go now.” The wailing and flailing dies down immediately.

Zabini runs up from behind and tugs Malfoy up from the floor with just one arm. For an attacker, Malfoy’s body is too lithe, too… graceful. But skilfully agile, for sure. Harry resents it in their practices, is thankful for it in their real games.

Seamus catches Harry with a slap on the back as he jogs across the pitch, “no need to get so riled up in a house competition, yeah? It’s just practice. We’re a team.” Harry merely grunts in reply. It’s true, Slytherin are so far behind Gryffindor in the competition that Draco could whine, pray, get his father to donate another shit ton of pristine equipment, and that house cup would still be Gryffindor’s. Meanwhile, they still belong on the same team in the grand scheme of things. The Hogwarts Private School Football team.

Harry receives a sharp pass from Ron, passes forward to Dean, receives it back, and he’s in line for a close shot. He eyes Bletchley, angles his foot back, and- slam!

_What the fuck just happened?_

The whistle blows. Harry feels a stabbing pain shooting up the side of his torso, his elbow burns from the forceful graze against the pitch. He’s on the ground. A swash of blonde is the first thing he sees, then the blinding light of the sun. For fuck’s sake.

“Malfoy,” Harry snarls, his bones creaking as he sits up, “I swear I’m gonna snap your legs off one by o-“

“It was an accident!” Malfoy exclaims, arms flying up in faux innocence as he scrambles up and away from Harry. “I was going in for the ball!”

Harry takes Ron’s extended hand to steady himself as he gets up from the ground, ignoring the concerned voices of his Gryffindor teammates and immediately striding towards Malfoy who’s still arguing with an unconvinced Madam Hooch.

“Malfoy!” Harry growls, shoving him in the back with full force, causing the blond to actually stumble towards their referee.

He whips his head back, “what the bloody hell was that, Potter? You really wanna go?” Malfoy retaliates, shoving Harry right back.

“ _I_ wanna go? _I_ do? You’ve been asking for a fight since the match started, Malfoy! You’re intolerable, you fucking suck!” The whistle’s blowing non-stop, Ron and Seamus are scrambling to hold Harry back, Malfoy’s being pulled back by Zabini and Goyle, Harry’s scowling, Malfoy’s sneering.

“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy! You stop this instant unless you want to miss the Durmstrang match next Friday!” Madam Hooch barks, causing an immediate freeze in their movements.

The Durmstrang match. Their long awaited revenge match. Harry’s been looking forward to facing off Durmstrang Institute way too much since their defeat in the sixth year tournament. (2-1, all thanks to Krum in the last minute.) They all have. It’s the seventh year quarter finals, but it’s more than that. It’s their pride, their last chance.

In his heart he knows, as they all do, Hooch would never stop Harry from playing. He’s their striker, their captain. But it’s the fact that they need to pull themselves together. Malfoy’s always in their starting line up too, he needs to hold off. A spike in team discord is the last thing they need a week before the match.

Harry shakes off his teammates, as does Malfoy.

“It’s a penalty kick, Mr Potter.”

“Oh yeah, I know,” Harry’s eyes don’t leave Malfoy’s heated silver ones for even a second, his bitten lips curving into a smirk. What a fucking idiot.

 

Harry kicks off his boots as he storms into the changing rooms, his flaring temper clearly trumping over his sense of victory. Gryffindor had just won, of course, but Malfoy had still been more insufferable than usual, and Harry’s not about to let it go.

He peels his jersey off, feeling it unstick with sweat, and whips it onto the floor. Malfoy’s stunned for a millisecond when he spots Harry fuming, but a poker face is restored by the time Harry’s in front of him, staring him down.

Malfoy sneers, rejoicing in the fact that he towers just an inch above Harry. “What’s wrong, Potter?”

Harry fists the collar of Malfoy’s jersey, pulling him even closer, so close that Harry speaks almost against Malfoy’s open mouth, “don’t you dare try those theatrics in the match next week. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Malfoy’s speechless and cherry red in the face when Harry lets go. The colour is alarming against his pale, glassy skin, a rare occurrence. He’s usually so shameless.

There’s a choked grumble, “fuck off, Potter.”

Harry ignores it.

 

The next time Harry hears those same words from Malfoy is in their chemistry lesson the following day. This time, he doesn’t ignore it.

“Why don’t you shut up and just save your voice for all the fake screaming and whining you’re gonna do at practice later?”

“It’s just banter, Potter.”

“It won’t be banter when I pour hydrochloric acid down your throa-“

“HARRY!”

Hermione’s voice wrenches Harry’s attention away from Malfoy, and the next moment happens in a terrible blur. His fingers are burnt in the panic to switch his bunsen to safety flame, there’s smoke, his crucible is smashed on the floor.

“Fuck.”

“Mr Potter!” Harry’s still wringing his fingers from the stinging when Professor Snape storms over, his face a thunder cloud. “Detention after school for breaking school equipment, disregard for safety hazards, and vulgar language.”

“Ha, fucking idiot,” Malfoy jabs, much too quickly and much too loudly.

“You too, Mr Malfoy. For vulgar language and for distracting Mr Potter,” Snape adds without even looking back.

Harry smirks, then grimaces, “sir, we both have football practi-“

“You should have thought about that, then.”

 

“I hate Snape and I hate you. Don’t even talk to me, Malfoy.” Harry’s voice is piercing and full of boyish rage as he scribbles lines furiously. For a rare moment, the only noise is the harsh scratching of their pens on paper. And then, Malfoy opens his mouth again.

“Don’t act like this isn’t your fault Potter.” It’s only a small murmur, but it sets off a glare and a rise in Harry’s levels of exasperation.

“How is this my fault! I was literally just minding my own business and having a regular fucking conversation with Parvati and you started arguing with me!”

“Stop talking to Parvati then.”

“What?”

“I said you suck Potter, everything’s your fault.”

Harry mentally punches Draco in the face and then turns his attention back to finishing his lines.

 

The sun is waning behind the persistent summer clouds by the time Harry tumbles down the stone steps and towards the pitch, Malfoy not far behind him.

“Harry!” Ginny calls, brushing fiery ginger strands out of her face with one hand, the other clutching a football by her hip.

“Ginny!” He breathes, “did they-“

“Yeah, your lot finished up about fifteen minutes ago- we’re just about done ourselves.” She puffs, out of breath from practice. “Heard you were stuck in detention?”

“Yeah, thanks to this twa-“ Harry’s cut off when Draco thumps the side of his body as he crosses immediately between Harry and Ginny, breaking their proximity. “ _Twat_.” Harry finishes clearly with a glare.

Ginny sends the blond a scowl, “that was unnecessary, Malfoy.” Malfoy pulls a face, and Ginny rolls her eyes, gives Harry a look, then jogs away to catch up with her team mates.

“Why are you always being such a dickhead?” Harry whips his head round to glower at Malfoy, who looks equally irritated for no apparent reason.

“Sorry I pushed past your _girlfriend_ ,” Malfoy teases, voice sharp and unpleasant stretching the word ‘girlfriend.’

Harry scoffs, “she’s not my girlfriend you fucking idiot.” He catches an open expression of surprise on Malfoy’s pointed features, obscured by strands of blond hair, swept and moulded by breeze and sweat. It’s strange and foreign. Malfoy’s never surprised.

He half expects Malfoy to press on it, he seems curious, bothered even. Instead, he picks up a discarded football. “Practice penalties with me.”

Harry feels doubtful for a second. “Wearing this?” He gestures to their pristine uniforms, and Malfoy grins, just slightly.

“Scared, Potter?”

Harry steps closer, adrenaline rushing through his veins, and begins to roll up his shirt sleeves, “you wish.”

 

“Ow!” Harry exclaims instinctively at the first shot Malfoy takes, when the ball grazes his red fingers at high speed and into the net. At first, Malfoy is sneering, and then realisation seems to wash over him.

Malfoy dashes towards him in a flash, “your hand-“ Harry blanches momentarily when Malfoy grabs him by the wrist. His fingers are warm, slender, careful. So unlike him. “You burned yourself earlier, didn’t you?” His voice is tangled with concern, strangely enough. “Didn’t you rinse it under cold water?” Now it’s scolding, like he has the right, as if he _cares._

Harry peers at Malfoy’s face, finds his crystalline eyes much too focused on inspecting his own hot, callous hands. “I did rinse my hand.” He replies, voice so neutral that it’s alarming. Malfoy drops his hand in an instant.

“Right. Whatever. As long as you don’t screw up the match cause you’re injured or whatever.”

“One would think you’d know that I don’t use my hands in football, Malfoy,” Harry laughs, amused.

The blond rolls his eyes and shoves the football into Harry’s hands, purposely careless with the movement. “I just don’t want you making lame excuses,” he retaliates childishly.

“I’m not you, Malfoy,” Harry grins, but only to himself as he turns away and heads for the penalty spot.

“Shut up and take the shot.” And like that, Malfoy’s brief softness fizzles away and Harry is relieved to shrug away the fuzziness in his bones.

Malfoy taunts him, arms spread out wide, dancing from foot to foot. It carves a golden grin onto Harry’s mouth, and he takes the shot, sudden and powerful. Malfoy leaps the wrong side, and Harry finds himself watching those pale, lean limbs in motion rather than his ball. Watching his outstretched, hopeful fingers, watching the way his body collapses onto the sun kissed grass, watching the way his face scrunches in boyish frustration.

Harry laughs again, the sound round and bronze and full of warmth, “don’t be so disappointed Malfoy. You’re supposed to be glad. We’re on the same team, after all.”

“Yeah?” He sits up, briefly scrutinising his grass stained sleeve, “doesn’t feel like it.”

“That’s cause you hate me,” Harry shrugs simply, like the answer is obvious. Malfoy looks up at him from the ground, expression unreadable for a moment.

“You hate me,” is his only response.

For a moment, the accusation is almost sad, but Harry brushes over it, snorts. “Not always. Not when you’re charging across the pitch with me. Not when you receive my passes effortlessly. Not when you seem to just know what I’m thinking in a game. I’d say I actually like you then.”

Malfoy blinks at him, Harry doesn’t look away. For a moment, he worries Malfoy might laugh at him, but there’s only silence. Malfoy’s hair is more gold than silver for once, his face is tinged with peachy pink from the afternoon heat of June.

Finally, Malfoy gets up. “It seems like I hate you more than you hate me then,” his tone is cool, prickly like the toasted grass.

“You hate me all the time, then,” Harry asks, his question posed more like a statement as he receives the ball from Malfoy’s hands.

“Every second of the day.”

 

“Where’d you go?” Ron quizzes him through a mouthful of chips when Harry sits himself down opposite at their house table in the Great Hall. “Snape can’t have kept you in detention that long right? That’s illegal.”

“Please finish chewing before you talk, Ron.” Hermione reminds him with a sigh, without looking up from her leather bound book.

Ron swallows, a sulky expression on his face, before looking back at Harry expectantly.

“We got there after you guys finished so we just practiced penalties,” Harry explains, spreading butter lavishly on a hunk of warm bread.

“We?” Seamus joins in.

“Malfoy,” Harry explains just barely, preoccupied with spooning heaps of food onto his plate.

“You guys didn’t fight?” Hermione asks, an eyebrow raised. There are puzzled faces surrounding Harry, he hadn’t realised they’d all been listening.

“Just a bit.”

 

The day of the match against Durmstrang is unbearably sweltering, the sun is beating down relentlessly, Harry is boiling with frustration as he attempts to trace the ball in a sea of players in black and burgundy.

The Durmstrang defenders are irritatingly skilled, persistent, and worse of all, Harry is barely receiving passes from his own midfielders. Fortunately, the score still stands at a draw, with neither of the teams having scored once. It really is an even matchup, annoyingly so.

It’s shit. It’s the second half and he’s wearing out just from mostly running and neither he nor Malfoy have even made close shots.

“Yes nice!” Harry shouts, the moment Dean slips past a Durmstrang player and makes a solid pass to Malfoy who receives it and begins to dribble towards the goal. He’s fast as always, but there’s two defenders on his tail and Harry panics as he runs. His feet and fingers are tingling, his head aches. They need this goal, they _need_ it.

They might make it, he thinks, as Malfoy runs closer and closer. But his space is being closed up, there won’t be a gap to shoot or pass when he gets close enough! Harry needn’t have worried though, because Malfoy doesn’t make it.

It happens like a whirlwind. One moment, Malfoy’s form is perfect, the white number ten is gleaming in the hopeful sunlight. The next, Harry sees tugging, nudging, shoving, he’s furious- and then! There’s a heavy thump and Malfoy’s on the floor, clutching his shin. His red face is creased with pain, the two defenders have their hands up, and Harry is sprinting over in a fury.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Malfoy rasps. He’s hurt, he’s actually hurt. Harry’s seen this scene multiple times, Malfoy rolling on the floor, dramatically whining, but never like this. Tears are sprouting at the corners of Malfoy’s eyes, he squeezes them away desperately. It’s unbearable to watch.

Zabini, Seamus, Corner, and a group of Durmstrang boys begin to crowd over, as does the ref. There are protests of innocence, murmurs of concern. Harry wrenches his eyes away from Malfoy and towards the ref. His expression is cold, dismissive of the incident. No way. No fucking way.

Harry crosses over and yanks one of the Durmstrang defenders by the collar, “how fucking dare you, you coward?” He hisses, he’s furious, his blood is boiling in his veins.

A heavy hand pulls him back by the shoulder, but Harry doesn’t even flinch when he sees Krum, face hardened like steel. “You should sort your fucking team out,” Harry growls, hands curling into fists.

The referee cuts between them, “break it up, boys. While I’m still being patient,” he warns. Harry desperately wants to cuss, to yell, but he bites his tongue.

“From one captain to another, I apologise on behalf of my team,” Krum says. His voice is low but sincere, and Harry’s hands gradually uncurl.

Turning back around as the crowd begins to disperse, he meets eyes with Zabini, who gestures to Malfoy with his eyes. The blond has already stubbornly stood himself back up, though the pain is obvious in his face. “Malfoy-“

“Don’t.” _Don’t you fucking dare_ , his silver eyes seemed to finish his sentence for him, determination radiating from his expression. Harry glances at Hooch, who’s standing at the side lines. Her expression is hard to make out, but she’s not doing anything either. He’s the captain, he’s Malfoy’s captain. It’s his call.

He eyes the benched players, then Malfoy, and bites his lip in solid frustration. “Malfoy, you should-“

“No. No,” Malfoy’s voice is strained, strung out and unnatural. Harry can’t tell if it’s the pain from his leg or the pain from the idea of giving up, failing, having to watch from the side lines. “I swear I’ll hate you,” he spits abruptly, childish and spiteful.

A part of Harry is shocked, confused rather, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. “Hate me then. I can’t have an injured player on the pitch, Malfoy. It’s irresponsible.”

“You think I’m a liability now?”

“I never said-“

“No, I’m not leaving this pitch. Not when we haven’t even delivered one goal.” Malfoy’s stony expression is twisted and complicated, but his resolve is clear. He backs away slowly before turning around and jogging away. Harry can’t even respond. _We._

The next twenty minutes seem to run by like prolonged agony. Harry can’t stop watching Malfoy, his movements, his leg. There’s six minutes left on the clock. Krum almost scores with a header from a corner ball. Four minutes. Terry Boot is subbed out for Justin Finch-Fletchley. Two minutes.

There’s one minute left on the clock when Malfoy receives the ball from Zabini. Harry panics, for Malfoy’s leg, for the impossibility of running against time. He’s slower than usual, his skill bound by his pain.

 _Look at me!_ Harry yells in his head, as he sprints diagonally behind Malfoy, who’s struggling to escape a defender. But Malfoy’s preoccupied, focused, his head is down, Harry’s not sure Malfoy even knows he’s behind him.

If Malfoy would just pass back to him, he’d be in for a perfect shot. He's outrun his closest defender, it would be quick, powerful, shocking. Their best chance. If only, if only- And then, all of a sudden- Harry might’ve been caught off guard if he hadn’t been paying so much attention to Malfoy’s leg- Malfoy’s foot rolls the ball backwards, right towards Harry.

The pass is deceptive, seemingly soft, a mistake, but it’s too fast and too accurate to be a fluke. Harry spots the blank astonishment on the defender’s face, his lips split into a wide grin as he takes the shot. Their goalkeeper jumps in a hurry- but it’s the wrong side. The ball smashes into the top corner, euphoria explodes inside Harry’s chest. They’re in the semi-finals.

He shouts, he runs, he leaps onto Malfoy, knocking him down onto the ground. “We fucking did it, we fucking did it!” Harry yells, adrenaline rushing and pumping in his veins. He pulls back momentarily to see Malfoy’s expression of joy and relief, his blond strands are sprawled wildly on the grass, he’s flushed pink and laughing so freely. Harry might’ve stared a little longer, but a heavy weight jumps on top of him, and another, and suddenly he’s laughing under a pile of sweaty bodies, suffocated by both a group of seventeen year old boys and pure exhilaration. 

There’s a weak groaning underneath him, and gently Harry feels fingers pressing against his thumping chest. “My leg, fuck,” he hears Malfoy curse. Oh, shit.

Harry pushes himself up, causing the rest of the team to take it as a cue to rise. Ron grabs him the moment he stands, raising his arm up in the air, “he’s only gone and bloody done it!” The shouting and cheering is thunderous and Harry grins so widely his cheeks hurt.

He goes to extend an arm out to Malfoy, who’s still on the ground, albeit smiling radiantly and quietly to himself, but Zabini gets there first. Harry merely watches as Malfoy is anchored by Zabini as he limps off the pitch.

“Harry,” a deep voice turns his attention away. He finds Krum, expression sullen, with his hand stuck out.

“Krum,” Harry takes it, shaking it firmly.

“Congrats.”

 

Malfoy turns up late to the party in the Slytherin common room having spent a couple of hours in medical. It’s what Hermione tells Harry anyway, when he spots Malfoy finally strolling through the doors and casually wonders what had held him up for so long.

“He spent this entire time in the hospital wing? I didn’t know his leg was that bad,” Harry sounds alarmed, and Hermione merely shrugs.

“Maybe you should go ask him.”

Harry keeps watching Malfoy, whispering to Pansy Parkinson, laughing with Goyle. His leg seems a lot better from the way he walks. “Yeah? Alright, I will.”

He wanders up from the sofa, eyes locked onto Malfoy, and is slightly startled when Malfoy catches him staring. Harry pauses momentarily, and somehow they’re just standing there and staring at each other from across the room. He’s about to shake off the weirdness and just walk over, but someone grabs his arm.

“Harry!” Ginny is smiling at him, her freckles like ginger stars running across her cheeks. “Congrats,” she leans in to give him a hug, and Harry returns it with both arms, but his eyes are searching for Malfoy again. He manages to make eye contact just before Malfoy turns away. Harry can’t be sure in the dim murky lights of the Slytherin common room, but it had seemed like Malfoy was scowling.

When Ginny pulls away, Harry pats her head affectionately, and she rolls her eyes. Ginny really is like the sister he never had.

Harry’s about to go find Malfoy, but this time Neville greets him. “Harry! You were brilliant out there!”

“Thanks, Neville. I couldn’t have done it without the rest of the team though,” he laughs, but his eyes are still somewhere else.

“You’re an amazing captain Harry,” Neville continues, “I meant to find you earlier in the night but I was helping Luna tinker with the string lights, then you were caught up with everyone else-“ Neville seems to falter, realise Harry is distracted. “Who are you looking for?”

Harry snaps out of it, “huh? Oh, no one. What were you saying? Luna, right? Let’s go find her,” he suggests, smiling. He’d find Malfoy later.

Unfortunately, Harry gets swept up in drinks and chat and pictures for another hour before he realises he still hasn’t managed to see Malfoy.

“Have you seen Malfoy?” He asks Dean, who’s pouring shots for himself and a few others.

Dean shrugs, “he was doing shots with us earlier but I haven’t seen him since. Why?” Harry bites his lip, briefly thinking to himself, _why?_

“I just- I haven’t spoken to him since the match,” he explains, and then downs one of the shots Dean had been pouring. He walks off before Dean can ask any questions.

Harry looks everywhere, asks everyone, he even runs up to the dormitories. But Malfoy just isn’t there. He clambers across fallen furniture, sidles past drunken peers, trips over broken string lights, draws back the curtains, spins around-

And there he is. Slumped against the wall in a dark, secluded corner. “Malfoy!” He calls out, “have you been here this entire time?”

Malfoy looks up with lidded eyes, and Harry can just about make out his flushed expression in the faintly lit corner. “Potter?” His voice is thick and slow, lighting something within Harry’s chest.

“Um, great pass earlier,” he comments, “I wasn’t sure you knew I was there.” Malfoy doesn’t reply. “How _did_ you know? You didn’t even look up.”

Harry watches as Malfoy’s lips curl into smile, somewhat relaxed and playful. “I always know. When I pass to you, when I know what you’re thinking, that’s when you like me best, right?” He replies, mystery laced in his slurring words.

Harry’s dumbfounded, and he stares with curiosity. Because it’s somewhat true. Part of why their team is strong is because he and Malfoy work together so well on the pitch. Their co-ordination is unbelievable, and he’s never understood the reason behind it.

“Is your leg okay?” Harry asks instead. When Malfoy doesn’t answer, Harry steps closer. “You’re drunk,” he comments.

“Yes,” Malfoy exhales, “yes to both.” For a moment, Harry’s unsure of what to say. Somehow, the only colours in existence are the blur of crimson on Malfoy’s cheeks, the crushed rose of his lips. 

Before Harry can process a response, he’s taken aback by a sudden heaviness against his own body. Malfoy’s hugging him. Or rather, leaning his weight on him, his face falling on Harry’s shoulder as Harry catches him by the waist with his right arm.

Harry swallows. His entire body feels unnatural, electric. “My head is spinning,” Malfoy admits, sounding breathless.

“That’s because you’re drunk,” Harry lets out a light chuckle.

“No,” Malfoy protests, arms suddenly tightening around Harry’s waist, and Harry’s entire face grows hot. “It’s cause of you,” he groans against his shoulder.

Harry doesn’t understand at first. And then he does.

But it couldn’t be! His insides are squirming as his fuzzy head attempts to comprehend Malfoy’s words over again.

But Malfoy clarifies it for him. “You make my head spin.” He murmurs, causing Harry to jerk away from him, hands tight on Malfoy’s arms. There’s silence. The music, the background chatter, the laughter, it all drowns away in this singular moment.

Malfoy breaks away from Harry’s grip, he lets him. When Malfoy reaches for his face with both hands, Harry lets him do that too. When Malfoy pulls him in, mouth hot and soft and tentative on his own, Harry lets him. Again and again and again, Harry lets Malfoy slip his tongue in, lets Malfoy’s hand wrap around the nape of his neck, lets his fingers stroke his jaw.

And then, he doesn’t.

Harry breaks away, out of breath. “You-“ He puffs out, incoherent because of the kiss, because of the alcohol, because of the shock. “You fancy me?” He pulls the back of his hand to his lips and mentally wills his heart to stop jumping like crazy. “Th-This entire time, you’ve-?”

“Every second of the day.”

Harry’s speechless.

“Fuck, I’m going to regret this tomorrow,” Malfoy grumbles under his breath, and takes a step to go.

Harry grabs his wrist, pulling him back. “No, you’re not.” He pushes Malfoy against the stony wall, pinning both his arms above his head with just one hand. And this time it’s Harry who pushes his open mouth against Malfoy’s.

He loves how eager Malfoy is when he catches and sucks and bites his lower lip, when his free hand slides under his shirt and leaves lingering touches all across his torso.

Malfoy moans sinfully when Harry tilts his head and slides his tongue in further, the noise causes Harry’s insides to melt. _You make my head spin._ Now Harry knows what he means. He doesn’t know why, or since when, but kissing Malfoy feels… right.

So many things click in his heavy head one after the other, the comments Malfoy has made, Malfoy’s flushed cheeks, his own attention towards Malfoy.

Harry pushes harder, hand finally letting go of Malfoy’s wrists, which desperately fly towards Harry’s hair, tugging and pulling to deepen their kiss. Harry’s body is on fire. He pulls away momentarily, eyes fluttering open to find a dazed, blissful expression on Malfoy’s face.

“Draco,” he pants out, watching the spark grow in Draco’s diamond eyes. Harry loves it, the surprise, the shyness. He loves Draco’s reactions, his expressions. Concentration when he’s sprinting on a pitch, smugness when he’s laughing at Harry, and the smitten, enchanted look he has right now. Fuck, he loves it all.

Harry leans in again, but this time he presses kisses against Draco’s jaw, trailing down towards his open neck. Draco arches against him, pulling him closer so that their bodies are tightly aligned. Embarrassingly, Harry’s face grows hotter at his body’s reaction, but Draco doesn’t seem to mind at all.

Draco’s voice is raspy and broken when he moans out Harry’s name, who keeps kissing and biting at his neck.

“Harry-“

That’s not Malfoy’s voice.

Harry pulls away in an instant, whipping around to find Neville staring at them, jaw slack. “I- You two-“ he stutters, face pink.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry pants out after a moment, dragging his sleeve across his mouth, “were you looking for me?”

“Well, I mean, um, the guys wanted to get a picture of the team together, we were just missing… you two…” His voice falters, lost in shock.

“Right, well, yeah, sure.” Harry takes a silent Draco by the wrist and makes a move to leave the corner. Neville stumbles on his feet as he leads the way out.

Slowly, Harry’s fingers slide from Draco’s wrist down towards his hand itself, pressing palm against palm.

“You found them!” Seamus pulls Harry towards the front of the group, who in turn tugs Draco next to him. Harry feels Draco slump against his side, feels Draco’s grip seem to tighten around his hand. No one seems to notice or question any of it.

“You guys ready?”

“Stop shoving, Seamus!”

“Terry move your arm!”

“Dean’s too tall to go at the front!”

Neville takes the picture.

 

Harry gets the picture from Neville later, when he’s lying in bed, exhausted. He turns the brightness of his phone up. Seamus is laughing, Ron’s eyes are closed, Zabini is sporting a rare smile. And him? He’s grinning next to Draco, face a little rosy, lips a little swollen. He zooms into Draco next to him, surprised to find that he’s not even looking at the camera. Draco’s looking entirely at him. The dark lighting doesn’t reveal much, but it’s obvious, Harry can see Draco smiling stupidly. His chest swells. Then, he looks at the way their hands are clasped together. It’s hardly noticeable at first, but undeniable now that he’s seen it. Harry wonders whether everyone else has seen it yet. Probably not in their drunken states. But tomorrow. _Tomorrow._

 

All morning the next day, Harry doesn’t see Draco. Luckily, they have morning football practice. Except Draco turns up late.

All eyes are on him when he runs onto the pitch, mumbling a sorry to Madam Hooch for his lateness. “Oh my god.” Seamus is the first to point it out, and Draco’s face turns crimson, his hand flying up in an attempt to cover the reddish marks running across his pale neck.

His eyes are downturned, expression uncharacteristically meek. Harry stares, willing Draco to look at him, but he seemingly refuses to. He watches Zabini pull him aside, hears the murmurs between the boys, all discussing who had done… that. _Me!_ Harry yells mentally, it was him! An inexplicable possessiveness rises within him when he hears people guessing the names of Slytherin girls, a few Ravenclaws. How idiotic of them all.

“Dra-“

“Right,” Madam Hooch clears her throat before Harry can catch up with Draco. “Let’s get on with a practice match boys.”

They’re ten minutes into the match when Draco receives the ball from Zabini and dribbles towards the goal, ready to shoot. Harry’s not far behind. He grins to himself, and in a split second, he charges towards Draco, knocking him over onto the ground before he can shoot.

“Potter, what the fuck?!” He scowls, and the other boys gradually crowd towards them. Madam Hooch blows her whistle, jogging over. Harry knows they’re probably confused, can hear brief exclamations of ‘what happened?’ and ‘what the hell?’ He never fouls anyone, much less so obviously.

“I was going in for the ball,” Harry grins down at Draco, whose confusion slowly drains away when he realises Harry is mocking him. “Also, it’s _Harry_ , remember?” He purposely hovers much too closely above Draco, hands planted either side of his now blushing face.

He ignores the people calling his name in confusion. “Draco Malfoy,” he smirks, voice purposely loud enough for those around them to hear. By now, they’ve figured that Harry doesn’t seem to be getting up any time soon.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Do you wanna be my boyfriend?” There’s a collective ‘oh my god’ from above him, and a very distinctive ‘what the fuck’ coming from Ron. His heart is pounding against his chest.

Draco blinks up at him. “Uhh, w-what? I mean, yeah, fuck-“ He splutters in embarrassment, immediately throwing an arm up to hide his burning cheeks.

There’s all kinds of confused clamouring in the background and Harry laughs, beaming. He’s breathless just from watching the way Draco’s lips curve shyly, his entire body is tingling. Harry tugs Draco’s arm away from his face and kisses him, gently at first.

There’s only cheering now, but Harry can hardly hear it, can hardly stay anchored in reality when Draco tilts his head up, returning the kiss eagerly.

“So, you fancy me back then?” Draco asks dumbly when Harry pulls away for a second.

Harry gives him a cocky, close mouthed grin, “every second of th-“ Draco immediately shuts him up with another kiss, not letting Harry mock him again. 

“This has got to be a dream,” Harry hears Ron’s stunned voice. Ron’s right, Harry thinks, kissing Malfoy really does feel like a dream. And he’s really fucking glad it’s not.

**Author's Note:**

> so i struggled w the football scenes hAHAH i'll be honest im not confident that i know the technicalities of all the rules etc this was all just conjured on a whim from watching the world cup too much
> 
> my dumb ass really wrote a drarry football au before i wrote something for my beloved sports anime


End file.
